die Kunst der Verführung
by FanSlewFantasy
Summary: GerIta one sided. Old fic, not paticularly good im afraid... Germany struggles to express his feelings when it comes to Italy. Implied yaoi, Don't like Do Not Read. Duh.


**REPOSTED. **

thanks to everyone who reviewed and favourited this on my old account. peace out.**  
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**Don't own Hetalia, Don't have a life. Oh, what a miserable existence mine is.**

…

Dearest Italy

_I straighten up in my desk, tapping the end of my pen on the surface of my dark wood desk, and sigh. My mind, which had been so full of flashing whirling ideas before, is now silent and unhelpful. The paper before me remains blank of all but those two words. They sit there, mockingly, meaningless and hardly conveying a single iota of what I wanted to say._

_Angry, I tear the paper off the front of the writing block and throw it on the floor with the rest, all of that scrunched white paper headed with those same to insipid words._

_Dearest Italy._

_The clock chimes the hour. 9pm. I have been here since five trying to capture those blasted words. But they wouldn't go down. They just wouldn't._

_I pull the writing block toward me, my pen hovers there for a moment but I make the decision, bringing the nib to the creamy paper._

Dearest Italy.

_Wrong!_

_I screwed this one up too and threw it harder this time, so that it hit the wall and plonked uselessly on the carpet below._

_Why couldn't I say it? Why couldn't I put into words this crazy feeling? This one I have never experienced before, this one I don't understand?_

_A knock on the door, I look up._

"_Ve, Doitsu, I'm going to bed now. I will see you in the morning?"_

"_Ja." I look away from you, but see you frown, confused in my peripheral vision. "Good night, Italia."_

"_Goodnight, Doitsu." Your questions unanswered, you hesitantly close the door. I wait until I hear the latch click before burying my face in my hands, ruffling fingers through my meticulously neat hair. It sticks up in an unruly blonde mess, but I am too pissed off to care. To confused and aching inside._

_The image of you at the door flashes in my mind. I ball my fist and grit my teeth. Where was that paper block?_

Feliciano.

_I write, pen nib scratching cruel groves into the paper. There was no need to pause this time, so I just kept going._

You are a true artist.

A man of irrational beauty, small and weak and dopey, you remind me of a rabbit, lop eared and harmless.

Maybe, to another man, you are.

A painter, painting fits of wild passion in red and gold and black, could much more fitfully explain what it is I wish to express herein, the dementia of a creator warping his mind until feelings are the paint and the canvas is the soul, and everything becomes a mess smeared all over the white of the human heart that is mine. You, my artist, my bunny, can be the painter. You ARE the painter, and you finger-paint your way across my mind. Your handprints are messy, confusing, in shades of red and crimson-black, masking my eyes and disserting my mind. Everything becomes a mess under the mass of paint you have slopped all over me, as you painted me inch by inch with stupid words and brainless smiles. Your fickle comments, your little laugh. The things you said that hurt for no reason, that made me ache in the empty way that I hope I never ache again, they echo in my mind and reverberate in my soul.

_Ve, Doitsu, you arms fit well around me, don't you think._

_How does it taste, Doitsu? I made it just for you._

_Can I have a hug?_

Of course you can have a hug. Though my arms are leaden, unaccustomed to embracing, I will hold my rigid form for you to squeeze, I will yield to your emotion and be swept away against my will. My arms creaking to embrace you back, my mind clicking with that steady, alien thought.

What is it you smell of, Italy? Pasta? Wine? Bread?

You smell of vineyards in the summer evenings, of cobbles that twist your ankles underfoot and quaint cottages that keep their occupants safe from the outside war. A white flag waves in my mind, and I wait for you to take yours out too, to give me some leniency, to beg you to take mercy on me and let us be equal here, both surrendered, both hopelessly lost.

But I never have that effect on you, do I?

In the same way it's impossible to describe certain things about war, it's impossible to explain certain things you do, or certain things I feel when you smile. It's impossible to express, with these clumsy difficult words, the brightness of your eyes when you cook, or the sweet incline of your neck in relaxation. How I ache to feel you stir beside me again when I wake, the smell of your hair coaxing me into awareness of humanity I had always denied I had. There is no phrase to describe the exquisite forms of your lips as you speak. Doitsu, Doitsu, Doitsu… I wonder how that word will taste spoken directly onto my mouth, our tongues syncing in another one of those indescribable ways. Not the plain press of a kiss or the heat of a French lip, but the true flavour of you actively sampling me too, sharing what those stupid fools words wont express.

But I get carried away then, lost in fantasies I don't understand, hopelessly unable to think in the straight lines I am used to.

Until now, simplicity had been my ally. Now, it is my greatest tormentor. Every wise word logic speaks is simple, every mental process is simple. The answer to this question is simple.

Leave it alone.

But something within me simply can not.

This simple solution conflicts with parts of my soul I didn't know I existed. How is it possible to ache in places I never knew I had? How can I fix something that seems to have no source? What is wrong with me, why does every thought of simplicity and order dissolve into nothingness whenever I see you open those beautiful toffee toned eyes?

I'm jealous of the way you paint, the way you express every thought and every emotion with the flick of a paintbrush. You never have trouble with this, do you? Because everything you say and do is exactly how it is. You embrace a different kind of simple. A simple that is bigger than mine, a simple that is more than rules and common sense. Your simple is laughter and vibrancy and love, and sometimes, when you are weary, your simple is sloped shoulders and a warm embrace, lips brushing my check and your body a little to close to mine. Sometimes, your simple is the art you make with your body, how you spread your legs when you sit, and how you are never ashamed to form circles with the roll of your slender hips. The way you flow is dangerous in a way unfamiliar; it seeps through my pores and fires me up. I wish I could capture you but I cannot. I just… I can't.

_My pen paused; I gazed at it thoughtlessly for a moment, before remembering myself and glancing at the clock. My breathing was ragged, my hand shaking a little with the flurry in my mind. Italia… oh god Italia! The time is 9.15. I still have more to say, the pressure in my chest has not released. I need to get it down! But I'm still not quite there yet._

_I will be though. I must._

Italia, you inflame me. You light me like a candle, you inspire me and tease me, and you are poison to my neat little heart. I want you to paint me, I want to paint you. I want to hold you against my skin until the heat blends our bodies into one, smudging the lines that separate us. Your angels face says yes, your hot little stretch, a sultry grin. That pert curl I want to suck and stroke and yank until you give me what I want, what your everything promised me from the start, it bounces every time you cast one of 'those' glances over your shoulder and I feel my crotch tighten, my cheeks burn.

I dislike the feeling of my heart fluttering in my chest. It's not right, it is unpleasant, but you love it, your palms pressing against the expanse I want to hold you against until you are imprinted there. I want your touch to trace my body, and I want to explore yours with my fingertips and palms, because I have no way to show you how I feel with my words. I think to long of it, I have no way of showing you how I feel with my actions either, but I can try. God, I will try.

I want to make you scream my name, to truly look at me. I want to see you ravished, pleasured and exhausted, wildly sexed, so that you understand how my soul feels every time you rape me with your oblivious laugh. I dream of your legs wrapped around my waist, the feeling of soft yielding flesh massaging me to the point of tearing release. I can almost smell your sweat and hear your cries as I bury myself deep inside of you, your knuckles white as you fist the sheets beneath you, your hair a tangled mess. And you just keep on saying my name. Over and over, painting the lost canvas of my moaning with us, tangled in the heat of this nonsensical moment and begging for release. God, oh god, inside you are the same, just as seductive and addictive, removing all thought from my mind. Inside you are hot, and you flutter as I move in you, you cry out in bliss when my lips rake the skin on your neck, when my fingers trace your skinny shoulders and chest.

I just want to hear my name spoken in that raw, endlessly simple yet incomprehensibly intricate way.

Doitsu, yes! More, Doitsu, more!

Italia we will rock together, release mounting, and I will push you into the oblivion I find myself in now as I write this, torn apart by this feeling I can't dare call love. You can paint it, make art from it, and turn the raw swirling mess of everything that is me into some new form, something that makes sense. You can seduce me, over and over again with that smile. But please make me new again, show me the simple you enchanted me with all those years ago.

_Triumphant, I threw the pen onto the desk. It clattered and bounced onto the floor. It was done. I had put it down._

_My heart was racing, my eyes were burning and my brain throbs with tension and deep discomfort about what I have just written._

_What have I just written?_

_I don't bother to re read it. Fear clenched my heart and I ripped the letter from the block, needing to hide it, destroy it. I could go back to my own little box once that was done. No-one needed to know about this, especially not Italy. I will go back to simplicity I know already, and logic that never let me down. Forget any of this stupid stuff, what was I thinking? I needed to calm down; my heart beats much to fast._

_Standing, I push the chair aside and hurry to the fireplace, letter scrunched in my hand._

"_Doitsu?"_

_I look up in desperate anxiety at the sound of your anxious voice. You needn't know about this, my love. Please don't let you know about this._

"_Yes?"_

"_It's cold tonight. Can I share your bed? I'll wear clothes?"_

"_Yes." I grit my teeth and gaze into the fire. "That's okay."_

_The letter was fed to the flames in a toss of my wrist. It didn't resist the heat licking the edges, curling the evidence to black powder. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked to you standing anxiously in the door. Your singlet top is much to big for you, your sleeping shorts much to small._

"_Just, can you wait a second? I need to get dressed first."_

…

**Well, that's all folks! Ive just discovered a smashing little doujinshi site that im about to milk for all its worth, so I will see you around.**

**Ah, internet. You glorious glorious creature you. Just when I think ive read all the sexy hetalia gay-sex there is, I discover another glorious site in which to lurk like a creepy creeper. **

**Internet, I love you. **

**Internet: I love you too, man.**

**Me: … oh really?**

**Internet: really.**

**Me: *blushes, kisses computer monitor shyly***

**Internet: tehe…**

**Me: *kisses again, a little more confidently***

**Internet: *deepens kiss***

**Me: *slips finger into printer port***

**Internet: no, wait, stop stop… ah…**

**Me:*turns and sees you watching* do you MIND? This is kind of private!**


End file.
